


Caladbolg

by sheol



Category: Guild Wars 2 (Video Game)
Genre: Heart of Thorns and LW3 spoilers, Mentions of Canonical Character Death, Survivor Guilt, mentions of onesided PC/trahearne if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-29
Updated: 2019-10-29
Packaged: 2021-01-07 23:03:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21225701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheol/pseuds/sheol
Summary: Caladbolg, reshaping itself. A clear message that he has proven worthy.He doesn't feel worthy.------Sadly not a shipfic, rather its a short story about guilt and coming to terms with the events of Heart of Thorns.





	Caladbolg

As the vision crumbles to ashes, five more rise. Except they make no move to ready their weapons, nor do they approach. They simply stand, presenting their offerings. Finally, after a moment of hesitation, the commander lowers his weapons. Wounds drain away like water, as if they were never there to begin with. Bruises fade and the gentle aches disappear. He is left with only the visions.

They stare ahead with the same empty look as the one he fought. Lifeless, cold, from golden eyes matching his own. In their hands are flickering weapons, fading in and out as if they are not quite real yet. They are all seem different- a shield, a dagger, a sword, a scepter. A greatsword. Yet they're all the same. Caladbolg, reshaping itself. A clear message that he has proven worthy.

He doesn't feel worthy.

He grabs the flickering handle of the greatsword and the other visions shatter in a flurry of ash, leaving him alone with the newly reformed Caladbolg. He picks it, because it seems the closest to the weapon Trahearne used. An old friend, so to speak. In a dispassionate way he notes that it's prettier than the worn weapon he retrieved from Waine, so long ago.

It beats in his grip, a living thing that warms his hands. After a moment's hesitation he clenches his fists around the handle and nods, before his sight is overcome by white as the world crumbles around him.  
He wakes with it beside him, grass woven into the cracks, humming with warmth as Ridhais beams with joy. She hugs him, wiping the wet from her eyes as she congratulates him. He barely hears her, stomach heavy with lead as he grabs the sword.

Watching its glow pulse, familiar and bright, makes him sick. As soon as he parts with Ridhais he wraps it up in soft cloth until it can no part of it can be seen. The air rings with soft bells as he tucks it away, a sound he can only describe as upset. He remembers listening to Trahearne speak of the sword as if it were alive. Now, that he can hear it hum and sing, chiming a sad song, he understands why.

He knows the sword is far too valuable to be left by itself, unprotected except for the wolves and bears whom have taken residence around his cottage. He knows this, yet cannot bear the thought of taking it with him, the gentle song too much like the tired smile of his old friend. So he leaves it. Wrapped in cloth and left in the corner of the cottage, he locks the door and leaves without looking back.

He doesn't return for months, too busy and too far away. Sometimes he simply cannot face the thought of returning when the scars of the dragon still marr his world.  
He avoids it, until his blade sinks deep enough into Caudecus' heart that the snake can never rise again. He shakes off the bloodstone dust, gives his farewell to his guildmate and walks. When his path finally crosses Queensdale he might as well have forgotten about it.  
He is reminded far too quickly when he unlocks the cottage.

Blue, yellow, red, they flutter out the door, a whirlwind of wings and precious dust. He flinches back as they fly past his face, small butterflies of every color he can think of. More are inside, flocking on the bundle of cloth he wrapped around the sword long ago. A bright glow pulses from the bundle, cloth displaced and stretched oddly. Like it has been disturbed. His first fear is that someone has been there- but no. The animals are calm and the door hasn't been forced. Soon his curiosity covers his caution.

Butterflies scatter as he nears and the glow brightens. Immediately a welcoming hum fills the air. Like a second thought the butterflies flock back, few even landing on the cloth again, wings shimmering in the evening light. They crawl onto his hands as he shifts the cloth, revealing the sword.

Except the greatsword is gone, replaced by long curving vines. He shifts the cloth more, stomach heavy with dread. A gentle glow lights up the dark cottage, and he stares with stunned silence.

The vines knot together into the familiar shape of a bow stave, overlapping and curving in smooth lines. A slim string stretches from the ends, creating a thin but tough cord. Shards which he recalls being part of the blade weave into the vines, creating a sturdy handle and guard. The size is perfect; long enough to favour range, yet not so bulky it cannot be quickly used to block an incoming sword. A near perfect match to the longbow he carries on his back, one he had commissioned exactly to his taste.

It chimes, pleased and curious at the same time. He can hear the unspoken question,_ are you satisfied?_  
He should be. Caladbolg vibrates with excitement, awaiting his judgement. It would be stronger and sturdier than any longbow created by any grandmaster huntsman. It would not shatter so easily, and the vines would regrow over any damage. Its arrows would fly true and far, and it would reshape itself to fit his needs.

He moves to take it, to hold it, to feel the sure weight and balance, but the guilt weighs on his shoulders.  
"I chose a greatsword." He says, _accuses_. Laughter in the form of melodic chimes fill the room. Butterflies flock around them, dancing. He snarls. "Do not mock me."  
Caladbolg was Trahearne's, and Caladbolg was a greatsword. There's a wrongness in the new shape. He will not have the sword trick him into believing he could ever be as worthy as the marshal. He will not be lied to. So he wraps it into cloth again, harshly waves away the butterflies and leaves.

"Take it back." He demands, only just stopping himself from throwing the bundle at the Pale Tree's feet. Instead he lets it drop, gentler than he intended. He shouldn't break Trahearne's sword again, not after what he did to reforge it, despite the cold anger clawing through his chest. What sounds like hundreds of bells begin chiming shrilly, upset and outraged. "I do not want this constant reminder. Give it to a worthy Sylvari, or bury it with his ashes."

The Avatar picks up the bundle, gently unwrapping it to reveal the longbow. She murmurs soothingly to it, the bells quieting down until it's little more than a tense hum.  
"I cannot." She says. "It chose you."

He narrows his eyes, jaw clenching at her words.  
He has been angry at her for so long. For the lies, for allowing her children to be sent straight into the jaws of the dragon despite knowing the truth, for the favour she granted some yet leaving others to fumble without answers all while claiming the blossom is a brother to the weed.  
Though it was never his place to object. He was no child of hers. But the anger has festered, in the disappointed curl of Canach's lips, in Caithe's sharp words, in Trahearne's sleepless nights. Festered to the point where it boils, red hot and furious. He has held his tongue before. But not about this.

"Then Gods be damned it can _choose again_." He spits. "Take me for no fool, Pale Mother. I hear the Sylvari whisper as I walk through the Grove. To them I am but another Waine, profiting of the death of their brother. They know a _human_ could never be worthy to wield their thorn." His heart aches at the thought, leather squeaking in clenched fists _(he would break the sword again a thousand times if it meant saving the marshal_). They speak of Riannoc, dead while his squire ran off with the sword. They speak of Trahearne, dead while his commander ran off with the sword. _Humans_, they whisper, distrustful and afraid. "And they're right."

She is silent for a breath, and when she speaks the leaves around them shiver.  
"My children will know better, Commander." It echoes around the Omphalos chamber. He wonders how much of it carries to the branches below. "We owe you a great debt. For the Sylvari you saved and trusted when others would not."  
He stares at her as the leaves settle.  
"I cut down many more of your children than I saved." He says darkly. Unnecessary deaths, had she been truthful from the start. Unnecessary deaths, if only he had been able to help them. But his words never got through, empty to deaf ears. "I struck him down, with his own sword. There is no debt."  
"Trahearne would beg to differ." She says, ever so gently. "You spoke to him, did you not?"

The remains of a pact airship, floating in the skies. A dream. A vision. A battle.  
He wins easily, side stepping the charging golems and picking them off from afar. The last arrow flies wide as the vision slouches in defeat, regaining its breath.  
"_I always wondered about the outcome of a battle between us._" The vision says later, when they stare at the treetops of Verdant Brink far below.  
"Hm." He laughs. "Your skill was wasted on deskwork."  
"_Perhaps. But it was where I was needed._"  
They talk, about the past and the future. The dream doesn't show signs of waking for a long time and he is unwilling to leave. For the things left unsaid. For the smile of an old friend. They speak about the Orr and the Pact. About Fort Trinity. About cats.  
When the rustle of the jungle grows louder and the sky blurs he turns to the vision.  
"I'm sorry for what I did." For not being there sooner.  
The vision smiles at him, a smile lacking the heavy weight it always carried before. "_Don't be._" Trahearne says. "_You did so well. I'm proud to call you brother._"  
With that the world fades and he wakes, blinking up at a dark sky while Ridhais strokes his cheeks. The pads of her fingers are wet.

"Doesn't matter." He says. "He was always too forgiving." The Pale Tree regards him, gently, before speaking.  
"Yet that's why he loved you. For being able to do what must be done, despite the cost to yourself."  
He quiets at that, averting his eyes. His heart feels heavy at the thought. _Ruthless would be a better word for it_, he thinks, seeing Trahearne's manic smile as he drives the shard into his heart, teeth golden with sap. Feels the Sylvari's head slump onto his own shoulder, Trahearne's final breath ruffling his hair. The Pale Tree shakes her head, as though she could see his train of thought. He blinks, clearing away the picture in his mind.  
"Trahearne wished you to have it. So it may lighten your burden, if only by a little."

She holds the bundle to him, cloth draped over her arms. Numbly he takes it, lifting Caladbolg from its bed of silk and cloth. It hums, a small but pleasant noise, like a soothing melody. The handle fits the curve of his hand like it was cast to suit each miniscule groove. Perhaps it was. Regrown from the shattered blade of his lost friend, one last gift.

Still, he hesitates. The Pale Tree closes her eyes and sighs, the ethereal glow around her seemingly darkening. When she opens them again they're filled with resignation.  
"If it truly is what you desire, I shall take it. I cannot unmake its decision- you will remain its chosen for as long as you breathe in this world. But I can pass it on, hope it will find a just soul to wield it. That it will be used for good." She holds his gaze. "But I cannot guarantee this." Her hand finds his cheek and cups it gently. It's cool like spring water. "Not unless it is you who keep it."

He holds her gaze, and seconds pass until her resignation changes into joy and she smiles, like she has seen his thoughts and knows his answer. With the slightest tilt of his head he leans into the touch, not by much- he is still angry with all the secrets and lies- just enough so where she knows where his heart lies.  
"My knight. Hold my thorn true." She says, and crisp bells fill the silence around them. Caladbolg sings, the leaves of the Pale Tree shivering in response. It's beautiful.

He nods, once, before bowing and turning away, Caladbolg pulsing warm against his skin. By the time he's reached the ground once more it's secure on his back, somehow a familiar weight, like it's always belonged there.  
No Sylvari looks at him with dread as he passes, none turns to another in whisper.

"Knight." The watcher of the Asura portal greets with a smile.

**Author's Note:**

> I know this is very character-centric, so thank you for deciding to read it anyway lmao.
> 
> His name is never mentioned, but the story is about a human male PC named Daud.  
lostmylongbow.tumblr.com


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